Lucy regarded him with curiosity. “I thought he was”—she frowned at the sound the word made—“a blacksmith.”
“One hardly precludes the other, Mrs. Estwood. Usually, a blacksmith is a valuable member of a village. Not so in my father’s case, though he was the only way to get a horse shod for miles. When he was sober, he did a marvelous job.” Harry looked away for a moment. Those were the good days, few and far between though they may have been. Plenty of coin for theEstwoods to eat instead of struggling to grow enough in their small garden. “Unfortunately, my father wasn’t often without a bottle of gin.”
He flicked the top of his missing pinky finger, the rough edge itching along his thumb.
“Is he still?—”
“No.” Harry could still hear the sound of the poker striking his father’s head. The shattering of plates as his sisters, both missing fingers, had flung everything on the table at their father to keep him from getting up. His brother, all of five, had watched silently, a determined look on his face as Harry’s mother screamed.
“Both my parents died long ago. If you are curious, I’ve two sisters and a brother. I only see them on occasion.”
Alice kept in touch, but only rarely. In saving them all, Harry had also pushed everyone away. But it was for the best. Truly.
“I always wished for…a sister. Or a brother.” She took a delicate sip of the scotch. “I suppose there is still time. Sally is only a decade older than I.”
Harry made an exaggerated shiver. “What an unappealing thought.”
She smiled back at him, exhaustion lining her lovely features. “Agreed.”
“Finish that up, and I’ll help you with your gown.” He would have Lucy in his bed tonight, but only to sleep. The fire she’d shown earlier had all but disappeared.
Lucy’s glass clattered to the table. “But?—”
“You don’t have a lady’s maid at present, Mrs. Estwood, and I’m not going to rouse one of the maids or Mrs. Bartle at this late hour. Stand up.” He waved a hand at her. “You can’t sleep in your corset.”
Lucy stared at Estwood.Or rather, the edge of his coat.
Sheunderstoodwhat transpired between a man and woman. Knew which parts fit together, so to speak. Father bred horses, and though she’d been forbidden to observe, Lucy had caught sight of a stallion mounting a mare.
I want you with or without Marsden attached to your bloody skirts.
Lucy wanted to believe him. That even after all of Father’s deceptive schemes and her own role in humiliating Estwood—and she most certainly had, the night of the ball at Granby’s house party—a flicker of the attraction they’d once had for each other persisted despite having been so viciously snuffed out. But truthfully, her worth was far less than an abundant deposit of iron ore. Lucy was only passably attractive, her speech impediment unappealing, and her form would grow stout over time, if Father was correct. She already knew Estwood didn’t lack for female companionship. An ancient, lisping virgin couldn’t possibly satisfy him, no matter that he claimed he wanted her.
“I’m sure you have plenty of experience at removing a woman’s clothes,” she blurted out a bit more sharply than she’d intended, envious of that beautiful woman at the Shaftoe ball who had obviously been Estwood’s mistress. She might still be.
Estwood cocked his head. “Lucy.” The rolling cadence of her name, softly sounding of the moors, buffeted her skin. The corner of his mouth lifted before gently bringing Lucy to her feet. “You are thinking of Mrs. Armstrong.” He spun Lucy until her back was to him. “I know you saw us dancing.”
“I’m,” she bit out. “I don’t.” Lucy clamped her mouth shut.
“Speak your words, Mrs. Estwood. I long to hear them.” His forefinger once more traced her bottom lip. “No matter how they sound.”
“Don’t mock me,” she whispered, resisting the urge to stamp on his foot.
“Never. That is one thing I vow never to do.” The soft press of his mouth warmed the nape of her neck.
“Stop.” She took a deep breath as goosebumps rose over her skin. “Stop being so kind. Ours is a marriage of?—”
“It does not have to be. Now, it has been a long day, Mrs. Estwood.” Another openmouthed kiss fell on her skin. “I’ve no intention of bedding you this evening.” His voice roughened. “If that assuages any of your fears.”
Lucy grew stiff in his arms. Perhaps he didn’t want her after all. Not that she blamed him.
Another kiss beneath her ear. “Your thoughts as to your desirability are completely opposite from my own.”
Well, that wasn’t reassuring at all, knowing that Estwood could discern her emotions so easily when at times he was more impossible to decipher than a sphinx.
She shivered as his nose drifted up the line of her neck, his fingers plucking at the buttons holding the muslin of her dress together. It occurred to her that she had no clothing with her. She’d worn this dress to Madame Dupree’s today and then been married in it.
“Your jealously of Mrs. Armstrong is unwarranted, as she and I are no longer”—his teeth grazed behind her ear—“associated. My understanding with her ended the night of the Shaftoe ball after you made your intriguing proposal.”
